Seven Deadly Sins
by Klavierliebe
Summary: Everyone has a breaking point.


S e v e n D e a d l y S i n s

_Everyone has a breaking point_.

* * *

She's the first one to snap.

Maybe it's their eyes. The sidelong glances, the laughter in ancient hallways, the spotlight forcing her to smile and grit her way on. It's only so much attention that one girl can handle, right? They don't think so; she's _Macey McHenry_ and if anyone can handle this, if anyone can tackle that, it's her, but she's bottled it all up for _so long _it's only a matter of time before she explodes.

When they find the bruises, she blows them off.

When they find the scars, she rips her wrists out of their grasp and stalks away.

And at first, they're naïve.

_She's alright_, they think, _she's fine because I know her and she can do this, she'd laugh and slug me in the shoulder if she knew what I was thinking…_but they're right and she can't do it anymore -- the eyes, the laughter, the spotlight is too much and she can't take shoving her imperfect self out in front of the world. She knows this is a risky job, but she never thought it would be like this.

There comes a time when they realize how absolutely stupid they've been and how Macey (their friend, or is she so far gone they aren't sure?) is nothing but a spool of thread too close to the finish line. She doesn't look in the mirror and wears her hair down all the time, there are shadows under her irises and she doesn't look like Little Miss Perfect (Maybe because she never was.) and it takes them years to decode what exactly is missing: pride.

He's slow.

He doesn't even notice at first. It's purely subconscious. He can take care of himself, he can handle his life just fine on his own; why would he need their help? They'll just stumble into his business and screw things up. Nothing good can come from them -- their help, their charity. He doesn't need it. They don't seem to understand it, though; they think Grant Newman's pulling away and they're scared because he's starting to look a lot like the ghost in the office.

After a while, it comes to his knowledge and he deduces this individual reformation had started when she lost herself so far no one could find her -- he doesn't want to end up like that, so he does the only thing he can see himself attempting. It's not even that bad; he's just separate and independent and isolated now. He expects nothing, waits for nothing, and asks for nothing. There are no disappointments, right? What's so bad about that?

They're a tad desperate.

They reach out to him with pleas and wave their propositions in his face like banners.

He thinks, _they don't understand_. He can't accept any of their offers, he's completely alone and it's better like this, no one will get hurt when he just disappears off the map. He wants nothing they can offer him. He is perfectly bored in his bubble of isolation, but isn't loneliness the best cure for greed?

She knows it.

It's funny how she's so completely aware, and the rest of them are slow, slow, slow like molasses on the cobblestone. Of course they're pitifully slow. They can never, ever match up to her -- especially not now with a phantom colleague and a transparent ex-boyfriend. They're all still hung up over how those two _poofed_ off the radar, they don't see Rebecca Baxter anymore. Not like they used to.

That doesn't bother her, because she's the only one who sees how perfectly idiotic all of them are. Let the downers be downers, right? Yes. She's the only one in this office -- heck, the building, no make that the city -- who knows what she's doing. The rest of them, her inadequate partners, are petty and silly and brain-dead. It's no surprise she gets the most promotions, earns the most money. She's prettier. She's smarter. She's braver. She's a new-and-improved version of them.

It's safe to say they never notice.

She takes that as a compliment.

After all, they're most likely too foolish to notice how inexplicitly beautiful she is. Sometimes she wonders -- all right, a _lot_ of the time, she wonders why on earth the Director keeps these slugs around. They're dimwitted, hideous, and dull. Nothing at all to envy.

He changes.

In the beginning, he is normal. His head is full of mathematical equations, scientific conclusions, foreign languages and ancient runes. Everyday, he is whirring away in front of codes and computers and discs -- but that's alright, because that's what tech nerds do, and he's the biggest tech nerd in years; some people joke that he should legally change his name to Jonas Tech-guy Mackie. He chuckles and brushes it off as part of the job.

It doesn't take long until he's suddenly different and he doesn't know how. The days had started to blend together -- how long ago? He can't remember; it's all blurry and it feels like he's written this sentence a million times before. There are pen imprints on his fingers and he doesn't know the last person who spoke to him, but he keeps going because a brain like his can handle work, work, work.

He sits in his office one morning and suddenly wonders, absently, what day it is. The numbers don't fly forward out of the folds of his mind, but he doesn't even pause to consider this, just moves along with an empty chunk of time and space caught in between his ears. Papers are accidentally knocked off his desk, and he hardly blinks as he pulls a forced smile (what emotion equals a smile?) and gathers them together again.

They wonder why he's been so distant, he replies he hasn't gone anywhere at all.

That's a lie.

If it were possible to sleep your entire life and just dream up the days when you're awake, that's what would be happening to him, because he's gone. He feels nothing, and it doesn't scare him because he doesn't think he remembers fear. Sitting behind a desk every day of your life can get tedious; there are no emotions. No wrath.

She's so alone.

It upsets her -- the way it's painfully obvious their little tight-knit circle, their clockwork office, is disrupt and unbalanced. There's a whisper of a girl sitting at the table, a man shrouded in walls at the desk, a fiery and explicit girl strutting to the door, and the shell of a man behind a screen. It terrifies her; she's trembling in her sweater and her chubby little chin wobbles, but she doesn't cry because Elizabeth Sutton does not cry.

Maybe if she's better, maybe if she's perfect, they can all benefit. Maybe if she can run her fingers over her ribs, maybe they'll see _oh, how good she looks, _and they'll want to be better, too, and if they try to be better and she's already perfect then how bad can it be? All she needs is less here, less there, less everywhere. Then they'll see. She can make everything perfect by starting at home.

She gets dizzy spells oftentimes now, and she misses the feeling of sweets between her fingers, but she knows it'll be worth it in the end. She'll get what she wants, even if her fridge is dwindling just like her. Her soft curls are brittle like her fingernails, but she honestly doesn't notice. Nothing matters except that she can continue trekking on and sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice to save her friends.

They never tell her how good she looks.

She sobs in the office and nobody hears.

So maybe her dreams are gone and there's nothing but listless fatigue now. Perhaps, she can't remember what she wanted in the first place; it flushed down the drain with everything else she stood for. She's never felt more dead then alive, and she doesn't know what she'll do now that she's given up. At least they'll never call her out on gluttony.

He's waiting.

Once upon a time, he could have loved _her_. In another universe he probably does -- he probably lives with her in a house by the beach with a dog, an SUV, and two-point-eight children. Not here, though. Never, ever here. That crushes the prospect of soul mates, but he really doesn't care. There's no way he can love her in this life. Zachary Goode deserves better.

He can't find someone anywhere. He doesn't see a sparkle in the ghost's eyes, he can't find a spot on the snob's shelf of honor, he can't save Miss Toothpick from herself. They're all full of horrid flaws that he can't deal with. The phantom wears nothing but old, gray clothes. The queen is too up-in-your-face. Scrawny Bones is…well, tiny. He doesn't do any of that.

It doesn't even matter anymore. He's revolted by these faults, these idiosyncrasies. He wants, needs, _longs_ for a perfect woman to sweep him off his feet, and he can't see what's so wrong with that vision. She can be perfect, this girl, and he won't ever have to deal with pushy schoolgirls again. Perfect body, perfect hair, perfect eyes, perfect lips, perfect personality, perfectly rich and popular and sweet. Can't they understand _that's _what he needs?

They expect too much from him.

He expects too little from himself.

It's a horrible conundrum they can't figure out but he won't let on what he wants, needs, because they don't understand. They think it's plausible to settle for someone ordinary and imperfect and ugly. Why in the world would he ever do that when he can wait for the perfect woman? He wants no one else but her. She's the only one to make him feel lust.

She's alive.

The only one left, she thinks. All alone in the office, the building, the city, the world. She's lonely and alone but nobody cares because nobody knows. Nobody knows because she doesn't let them suspect; she just goes on with her life at hyper-speed. Conversations are held in seconds, papers are signed and missions are accepted in the span of a few heartbeats. It's exhilarating, how extremely fast Cameron Morgan can breeze through the day.

It's obvious why she can't, _won't_, slow down. (She ignores it.) If she stops or pauses or takes a breather, the ticking of the clock and the insufferable silence of a broken room will haunt her footsteps. They're all haunting her and she wants to forget them, so she darts in for a cup of coffee and zooms by to use the printer for her Level Thirteen missions. She won't focus on them; she has more important work to do.

It breaks her inside when she sees them.

They don't even notice anymore.

She rushes to work, she sprints through her assignments, she dashes home. Then she falls into bed and sleeps like a rock, only to wakes up the next morning and do it all over again. There is no stopping to contemplate how her life ended up like this, she'll be late! She'll be terribly, horribly late -- so late everyone will have already sped off the deep end and she can do nothing to stop it, she does nothing because she is sloth.

* * *

I do not own Gallagher Girls.


End file.
